


Storytellers

by FlirtyFroggy



Series: Galma [1]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-16
Updated: 2010-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-10 14:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/100792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlirtyFroggy/pseuds/FlirtyFroggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caspian isn't all that keen on dancing, but he does like stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storytellers

**Author's Note:**

> VoDT fic set during the week spent on Galma before the Pevensies and Eustace join the ship. Originally posted to my LJ September 2009. Fits into my [Keeping Up Appearances](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/keeping_up_appearances) universe, a blend of book-verse &amp; movie-verse. 
> 
> A note on age: In the Keeping Up Appearances universe the Pevensies and Caspian are older than in the books, as they are in the movies. In other words, everyone is old enough to be doing the things they are doing.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
|   
---|---  
  
When Caspian first suggested this voyage, Drinian thought him crazy. Indeed, he still wasn’t entirely certain this wasn’t the case. But if Caspian was crazy then so was Drinian, for he had allowed himself to be persuaded. Looked at with a cool head, it was a fool’s errand - sailing off into the sun-rise with no idea what they might find, or if they would find anything at all. It was a wild, ambitious dream, the sort that could only be thought possible by someone still young and still slightly naïve, someone who decided to rebuild an old ruined castle and its attendant glories instead of making do with the perfectly serviceable castle he already had, someone who had summoned up ancient kings and queens with nothing more to go on than hope. Someone who, Drinian suspected, already had half an eye on the stories people would tell when he was gone and wanted something that would match those told of the Golden Age. But Aslan had sanctioned, even welcomed, Caspian’s scheme and it was because of this that Drinian had finally acquiesced to Caspian’s wishes, and not because Caspian had looked at him so beseechingly and said, “Please, Drinian. You’re the most experienced seaman we have. I can’t do this without you. I need you.”

The week spent at Galma only a day after setting out from Cair Paravel was what Drinian’s father would have called ‘enlightening’. He had never seen Caspian in battle and while the organised, stylised bouts of the tournaments had nothing of the intensity and ferocity of a real battle, Drinian thought he saw something of the man who, if rumour were to be believed, had traded blows with Peter the Magnificent, and twice held his sword to his uncle’s throat, though he had been too honourable to use it . The people of Galma were equally impressed with the young king, the likes of whom had not been seen on this quiet little island within living memory. Indeed, it was said that when the kings and queens of old had left a second time they had bequeathed to him the splendour of Old Narnia, and that in the new king one could catch a glimpse of that Golden Age. Whether this was true Drinian did not know, but it certainly did Narnia no harm to allow these stories to spread and looking at his king sometimes, Drinian could well believe them himself.

It was the evenings that were most illuminating, however. When the Duke of Galma’s daughter had been born 18 years previously, he could never have imagined that as she came of age they would be visited by the handsome new young King of Narnia. He could barely believe his luck. Unfortunately, a father’s bias had led him to somewhat over-estimate his daughter’s charms. The poor girl’s main redeeming feature, aside from a rather arch sense of humour which made her an excellent dinner companion but was not quite what either Narnians or Telmarines would expect from their queen, was her dancing. To that end, every night was filled with banquets and parties, and the Duke was not the only parent who fancied their daughter as queen of Narnia. Drinian watched with growing amusement as Caspian, unable to refuse without giving offence, was forced to dance every dance, and if Caspian’s prowess on the dance floor was not quite on a par with his prowess on the battlefield, none of the ladies seemed to mind. On the contrary, they took great delight in assisting him, and Caspian’s lack of interest in even the prettiest of them seemed only to spur them on to greater heights of flirtation and attempted beguilement.

Entertaining as it was watching Caspian attempt to extricate himself from the tangled web of matrimonial ambition, it was the late evenings that Drinian enjoyed most. When the dancing was done and even the most determined of potential future brides was left with no choice but to retire and massage her poor blistered feet, the revellers would settle down in groups of four or five to while away the rest of the night sharing stories and drink by the light of the dying fires.

Caspian in particular had a love of stories which, Drinian pointed out on their first night on Galma, was rather fortunate as, if he hadn’t begged for stories as a child, then he would have probably run away screaming at the first sign of a talking badger and things would have turned out very differently. Caspian laughed at this and told Drinian that that was in fact precisely what he tried to do, and then swiftly changed the subject and asked Drinian to share stories of his travels which, though tame by the standards of the great old tales, were the most adventurous journeys undertaken by anyone in Narnia for at least a thousand years. Drinian, unable as ever to refuse, began his tale, aware the whole time of Caspian’s eyes on him. Drinian found his concentration slipping - he had told his stories many times, and enjoyed telling them, but it was difficult to remember the suddenly insignificant events of his travels through the Northern lands while being seared by that gaze. He made it through to the end and took a long draught of his drink. He was surprised when one of the other lords began a tale of Calormen he had heard when he was young; he had almost forgotten there was anyone but he and Caspian in the room.

Caspian’s attention moved to the new story-teller and Drinian, uncomfortable as he had been with Caspian watching him, felt inexplicably more exposed now that he had stopped. The stories travelled around the group, people sharing old Telmarine stories they remembered from childhood and new stories they had been taught by the Narnians and exotic stories gleaned from distant lands as Caspian’s Narnia slowly opened up to the world it had cut itself off from for so long. And every time the story shifted so did Caspian. Drinian watched him surreptitiously while his attention was supposed to be elsewhere; the king’s face was immobile but his eyes were alight as he drank in the world conjured by the story-teller’s words, words that Drinian barely heard. Then came Caspian’s turn and he caught the full attention of the by now rather sleepy group when he told them his story had been told to him by King Edmund and came from his world. Which had been their world once and was still their world when this story was created, and many had not yet wrapped their heads around that. Drinian wondered whether Caspian had asked Edmund for the story or whether Edmund had volunteered it. Had it been a night like this, with good wine and good company? Or had it been a quieter affair, talking late into the night, exhausted after a long, hard fight but unable to sleep?

Able now to openly watch Caspian, Drinian took another long drink of his wine and gave in to the desire to sit back and study his king. His face half in shadow, half glowing from the light of the fire, Drinian thought he had never seen Caspian look so animated. Everything about him changed as he told his story, King Edmund’s story. His whole body spoke: his voice was softer and somehow clearer; he gestured with his hands in a way he rarely did normally; he leaned forward as the story grew in intensity, his eyes sparking. That, at least, Drinian was familiar with. Caspian had a temper, though he usually kept a firm grip on it and few people had seen it really flare up. Those who chose to look, however, could frequently see it kindle in his eyes before he damped it down. Drinian often wished he could have known Caspian in the days before he learned to bite his tongue, and just as often was glad he hadn’t.

Drinian sipped his wine, which by now was making even him feel light-headed. He knew that if he were sober he would never allow himself to do this; to stare so openly at his king, to study and dissect his movements where all the world could see him doing so, to wallow in the privilege of being able to see Caspian so unguarded and passionate. But he was not sober, and so he would enjoy this, safe in the knowledge that Caspian was so absorbed in his story that he would not notice his captain’s attention, until the inevitable moment when his tale came to an end, and the evening with it. There was an instant when the gathered company seemed to hover briefly between two worlds, caught between the reality created by Caspian’s words and the reality of the rapidly cooling hall, as the last word died away. Then Caspian stirred, sat back in his chair, and returned to himself, and the world came back to normal. The warm, intimate room was a large, drafty hall; the glowing embers of the fires were little more than hot coals; Caspian was once again the King, friendly and smiling as he said goodnight to his lords but distant from them, revealing little of himself; Drinian was his captain, loyal and attentive. And drunk. The luxuriant, floating feeling had vanished, leaving him feeling wobbly and dizzy, except for his feet, which seemed to have rooted themselves to the floor and were reluctant to move.

The hand that touched his arm was accompanied by a soft chuckle. “I think you have enjoyed yourself a little too much, my friend,” Caspian said with laughing eyes as he helped Drinian to his feet.

“I fear you may be right, Sire,” Drinian said, looking away. If he looked at the king, he would see, somehow, Drinian’s thoughts, and Drinian would not allow that. He felt the world spin around him and reached out blindly for support, his hand catching hold of Caspian’s arm. Despite the layers of embroidery and silk, Drinian could feel the heat of Caspian’s skin and fancied he could even feel the pulse of the blood in his veins, though he knew that was just his imagination. Caspian pulled his arm away and Drinian knew a heart-stopping moment of clarity and mortification at the image he must present; stumbling around like a drunkard, grabbing hold of the King as though he were a piece of furniture. Then the withdrawn arm was slipped around his waist and the breath of Caspian’s voice reached his ear before the sound did.

“Come. We must see you back to your room, before the wine takes over completely. It would not do for my lords to be seen sleeping the effects off in the Duke’s hall now, would it? Unless you want tomorrow’s stories to be all about you.” There was laughter in the words, but Drinian still felt stung by them. He tried to pull away.

“Sire, please. You should not have to carry your own subjects.”

Caspian laughed again and tightened is grip. “But my dear Drinian, that is precisely what I am for. Besides, I have no intention of carrying you anywhere, even if I could, which I doubt.” He pulled Drinian towards the door, nodding at the few remaining servants and guests. Drinian, too aware of Caspian’s arm around him and the heat of his body beside his own, tried to pull away again. “Drinian, stop it,” Caspian said. All the laughter had dropped out of his voice and Drinian felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. “People are going to start staring, now stop being an idiot. Walk.” And so Drinian did, focussing on putting one foot in front of the other and trying desperately to ignore the feel of Caspian’s arm around him, the strength of his shoulder as it guided him, the way his hand would tighten on his hip when he stumbled. Caspian’s thigh brushed against his as they mounted the stairs, every step causing an almost unbearable friction, the soft rasp of the suede too loud to Drinian’s ears. He did not know if it was joy or shame that made him wish for the world to end at this very instant, but he knew he could not bear for Caspian to be this close to him for much longer even as he wondered how he would bear for him not to be.

Caspian, he realised as they staggered down a corridor together, was not quite sober himself, though he was no-where near the state Drinian was in. All of a sudden he stopped walking and started to giggle, resting his head against Drinian’s as he did so. His long hair tickled Drinian’s neck and his breath gusted across his cheek. Drinian felt like he might scream.

“Something amuses your Majesty?” he said instead, the words feeling thick and heavy in his mouth.

“Do I really have to endure this for another week, Drinian?” The words were little more than a whisper, dancing across Drinian’s skin.

“What do you mean, Sire?” Drinian asked.

“This,” Caspian said, raising his head at last and gesturing vaguely around the corridor they were standing in. “The tournament and the women and the, ugh, dancing”. He pulled a face at this and suddenly looked so much like a little boy who has been ordered to eat his vegetables that Drinian couldn’t help but laugh. Caspian joined him and the two of them stood there for a moment, holding each other up and laughing into each other’s shoulders. Drinian felt the tension draining out of him, the spell cast by the wine and the firelight dissipating, and he felt a little more like himself again. Caspian still had his arm around him, but Drinian thought he could stand it now and moved his own hand to rest lightly on the king’s shoulder. As Drinian had hoped, the contact prompted a shift in Caspian’s posture and he lifted his head to look at Drinian, his eyes shining with mirth. “I might almost wish Peter had stayed,” he said quietly. “If Peter had stayed he could have done all this,” he indicated the corridor again with a wave of his hand, “and I could have, I could have…”

“You could have what, your Majesty?” Drinian asked as Caspian trailed off.

“I could have told stories. Peter could travel the realm and pay court to the ladies and we could have stayed. We would gather round the fire and he would tell stories.” Caspian looked distant and troubled, and seemed unaware that he was not making much sense.

“We can do that here, Sire.”

“True,” Caspian said, brightening. “I’ve enjoyed tonight. It was worth having to dance all night to hear you speak of your travels.”

“Thank you,” Drinian said, not knowing what else to say.

“Come,” Caspian said, pulling Drinian once more towards his room. “We cannot stand here all night.”

“Of course not, Sire,” Drinian said, stumbling over the words a little. “You must be fresh for the tournament tomorrow. I believe the Duke’s daughter has high expectations of you.” He tried and failed to hide the smirk that pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“Do not tease me, my friend,” Caspian said, staggering to a halt as they reached Drinian’s room. He removed his arm from Drinian’s waist and Drinian felt his knees buckle. Caspian caught him, laughing, and propped him up against the doorframe. “Are you alright?” he said. “You don’t look well.”

Drinian closed his eyes momentarily and nodded slowly. “I’m fine,” he said, or tried to. The wine was making its presence felt again, and he had a brief premonition of how he was going to feel in the morning. He was not looking forward to it.

“That’s what you get for making fun of me,” Caspian said, still laughing. He carefully let go of Drinian, pushed the door open and ushered him inside, closing the door and shushing him with a finger to the lips when he tried to protest this additional help. Drinian caught his breath at the feel of Caspian’s touch, the gentle contact setting his whole face burning. He didn’t dare look at his king. No-one moved for what felt to Drinian to be an eternity, and he slowly, slowly raised his eyes to Caspian’s face, which was once again unbearably close to his own. For a long moment Caspian's gaze remained on Drinian’s mouth, seemingly transfixed by the sight of his own finger resting against the other man’s lips. Then, without warning, he dropped his hand from Drinian’s face and caught him by the arm again. He steered him towards the bed without a word and pushed him gently onto it.

The room span as he lay down and he shut his eyes against the dizziness and nausea. Caspian’s low chuckle came from somewhere near the bottom of the bed and Drinian felt him pull the boots off his feet. Then the bed covers were eased out from underneath him and placed carefully over his suddenly-exhausted body, and he heard the sound of water being poured somewhere off to his left. A glass was pressed into his hand and he drank the contents gratefully. Cool fingers brushed the hair away from his too-warm face, a gentle kiss was pressed to his forehead and Drinian thought he might swoon as the heady scent of wine and sweat and musk and soap and _Caspian_ swirled around him. The lips lingered a moment and then were gone. A soft “Goodnight, my friend” whispered down on him, and Drinian tried to respond but was already being pulled down into sleep. Footsteps echoed around the room as Caspian walked away from him and then stopped. Drinian heard the door open; it seemed like a long time before he heard it close again.

 


End file.
